The Penal Colony (24 page)

In food, in clothing, and shelter, and indeed
in everything else, the Village was all but self-sufficient. There
were now nearly a hundred and ninety inhabitants, who had brought
with them a wide range of expertise which Franks, through Appleton
and Stamper and the descending layers of the hierarchy, had
employed to the greatest possible effect. When knowledge was
lacking, Franks sent to the mainland for books, and in this way had
developed some of the more specialized skills of food production on
a barren Atlantic island.

The Community bred goats and sheep, and had
recently begun to expand its dairy-farming, poultry-keeping, and
pig-breeding. It grew wheat, oats, barley, sugar beet, potatoes,
and a number of other vegetables. An early enterprise was
fruit-growing. Blackberries and gooseberries were native to the
island and cultivated strains did well. Netting cages were put up
to keep birds away from the raspberries, loganberries and
blackcurrants. More tender fruits such as strawberries were
protected from the sea wind by greenhouses made of driftwood and
polythene sheeting, in which salad crops were also intensively
grown. Surrounding the soft fruit area were orchards of young
apple, greengage, pear, and cherry trees, and surrounding these
were shelter belts of Leyland’s cypress which, besides providing
rapid growth, were evergreen and could eventually be harvested as
timber. Most of the produce was eaten fresh, to give the greatest
dietary benefits, though a proportion was preserved for the
winter.

All the processes of production in the
Village were interdependent and demanded a high degree of
co-operation. At busy times the men growing fruit were excused
other duties, and extra labour was drafted in to pick the crops.
Every member of the Community had his own area of responsibility,
yet the work was so well scheduled by Franks and Appleton that
nothing ever seemed to be left undone. It was this aspect of life
in the Village that Routledge found the most remarkable. He would
not have believed it possible, least of all from a disparate bunch
of convicts whose chief common trait had been an inability to
function in mainland society.

The need to conform, to earn the respect of
their fellows, and to avoid at all costs the spectre of expulsion,
had wrought equally remarkable changes in their social behaviour.
Routledge had scarcely begun to fathom the rules of etiquette which
regulated Village life, so different were they from those of the
mainland. He almost felt it would be easier to master court life in
twelfth-century Japan. The business of names was endlessly delicate
and subtle, the chief medium through which status was measured and
made known. Paradoxically, the more times a man was addressed as
“Mr”, the lower his standing. Such exalted individuals as Godwin or
Thaine might be accorded one or two “Mr”s in a conversation; but
this varied according to the substance of the conversation and the
status of anyone else within earshot.

Breaches of etiquette, conscious or
otherwise, resulted in a lowering of a man’s status which was
instantly and mysteriously broadcast to the whole Community. Among
these, besides clumsy use of names and unwarranted criticism of the
Father and his Council, were any acts which could be construed,
however remotely, as selfish or inconsiderate of others,
particularly those with a lower status. Virtues which earned an
increase of status included physical or mental courage, generosity,
personal pride, and a capacity for hard work, especially when this
was of direct value to the Father. Myers, for example, Franks’s
senior guard, enjoyed a status second only to Appleton’s, though he
was a man of comparatively low intellect and did not serve on the
Council.

The granting or refusal of informality
reflected on the status of both parties involved. Refusal was not
necessarily a snub. Routledge’s status was such that he was already
on surname-only terms with two of the men who had been appointed to
help him with his house. But Ojukwo, a senior carpenter, was still
“Mr”. Routledge had been quite wrong in thinking that the crossbow
would improve his position. He was near, if not at, the bottom of
the social scale.

The Village held many other surprises. The
stone and driftwood chapel drew a congregation of forty or fifty
men, many of them born-agains like the chaplain, Blackshaw,
himself. There were musical evenings, a darts league, a drama
group, a bird-watching club. King was active in the chess circle,
which attracted an unexpectedly large number of devotees.

“You ought to join,” he said. “It’s what your
game needs.”

Routledge did not reply. He was staring at
King’s small portable board, trying to find a response, any
response, to King’s last move. This was the fifth time they had
played: on each occasion Routledge had been thoroughly humiliated.
Now he was already a rook and a knight down, and an evil-looking
combination was assembling against his queen.

Rain was falling outside. As it was Sunday,
he had been allowed to sleep late, until seven. The time before
lunch had been spent on various domestic chores; this afternoon
Routledge was due at Godwin’s to do some extra calculations. Each
weekday he had risen at four-thirty, worked for most of the morning
on the construction of his house, eaten lunch, reported to Godwin’s
at one and worked there until nine, when he had been left with the
strength only to stumble into bed and fall asleep. He felt deeply
fatigued, but the fatigue was not unwelcome: it helped him to
forget.

He had not wanted to expend the mental effort
needed for chess, but the alternative, the possible loss of King’s
company, had seemed worse.

“Do you want to put your bishop back where it
was?” King said.

“No. I’ve moved it now.”

“Then it’s mate in four. You’re in
Zugzwang
.”

“What’s that?”

“Any move you make lands you in hot
water.”

“That, at least, I can see.” Routledge
considered for a moment longer. “I resign,” he said.

“There’s one chess story, doubtless
apocryphal, from the Middle Ages. Nothing was said during the whole
game. Suddenly one of the players leapt up, grabbed the board, and
brought it down endways on his opponent’s head. That’s the sort of
game it is.” King was setting up the pieces once more.
“Another?”

“I don’t think my nerves can stand it.”
Routledge glanced at the alarm clock: the time was nearly one.
“Besides, I ought to get over to Mr Godwin’s.”

King closed the lid on his chess set,
snapping the catch, and in that instant Routledge realized how much
he liked the older man. During the past week his opinion of King
had been rising steadily.

At the start of their first chess game,
Routledge – who, although he had not played since his schooldays,
had always thought himself a formidable opponent – had assumed
automatically that he would win. He had viewed with complacency
King’s quiet development of his pieces, feeling his first twinge of
alarm only when he saw he had blundered straight into an elegant
and silken trap. It appeared that King had judged him nicely, using
his own confidence as a weapon. And so it proved in real life.
Routledge now regretted and felt ashamed of his first estimate.
Little escaped King’s notice. Half a dozen words were all it took
for him to understand a complex idea that another man might never
have seen. If Routledge wanted to keep any secrets, he knew he
would have to be careful what he said. King had noted Routledge’s
initial opinion, and not taken offence. He mixed easily and freely
with the other villagers, was popular without currying favour and,
above all, showed respect for his social and mental inferiors.

This attitude was in marked contrast with the
one Routledge had brought with him to Sert. Routledge had begun to
see it; he had already, under King’s influence, begun trying to
modify his behaviour. And yet, except for King, he had not met
anyone remotely sympathetic. With those like himself, on the lower
rungs, he had nothing in common. Franks fascinated him, but his
fascination was tinged with fear. Appleton and the rest of the
upper echelon were simply unpleasant, and that included Godwin,
whose subtly sarcastic manner was second only to his conceit as a
polluter of the atmosphere in the workshop. Fitzmaurice did not
help. He had made it plain that he resented Routledge’s presence
and regarded his contribution as unnecessary.

“Hullo,” he said, as Routledge opened the
door.

“Mr Godwin not here?”

“As you can see. He left your work on the
table.”

Fitzmaurice insisted on saying “the table”
rather than “your desk”, which is what it had now become. Routledge
sat down.

Suddenly he decided he had had enough. It was
time to snatch up the board and bring it down on Fitzmaurice’s
head. “Have you decided what sort of transducers to use?” he
said.

Fitzmaurice was clearly startled. “Come
again?”

“For the sonar.”

“What sonar?”

“The sonar I’m helping you design. That
one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Even if Mr Appleton hadn’t given the game
away, I would have guessed by now.”

“We’re talking at cross purposes, Mr
Routledge.”

“Mr Appleton asked me what I knew about
piezoelectric devices, about electronics, acoustics. We’re stuck on
an island. How do you get off islands? By boat. Just what sort of
idiot do you take me for?”

“I don’t take you for any sort of idiot, Mr
Routledge.” Fitzmaurice got up from the bench. “I’ve got one or two
things to attend to,” he said, moving towards the door. “I’ll see
you later.”

“Tell Mr Godwin he’s not using me properly. I
can do better than this. Understand?”

Routledge had stepped far beyond the bounds
of safety. This was a gamble, a calculated risk. If he was ever to
get anywhere in the Community, he had to start now, and the man to
start with was Fitzmaurice.

No rebuke was forthcoming. Fitzmaurice donned
his oilskin and opened the door. “As I say, I’ll see you
later.”

* * *

When he saw Godwin’s face, Routledge wondered
whether he had indeed gone too far. Godwin took off his raincoat
and hung it by the door, removed his wellington boots, and, slowly,
deliberately, pulled on the old tennis shoes he used in the
workshop.

He had arrived without Fitzmaurice, who,
Routledge supposed, was even at this moment conveying to Franks the
news that their secret had been rumbled. Routledge thought of
Myers, and Talbot, and regretted having spoken. Godwin might be
followed to the workshop by an armed deputation, and Routledge
might well end his afternoon at the bottom of the cliffs.

“Sit down, please,” Godwin said.

He went to the bench and sat down himself,
his back to the window, so that Routledge had difficulty in making
out his features.

“Mr Fitzmaurice tells me you believe we’re
not using you properly. What do you mean by that?”

“It means … I feel I could contribute
more.”

“To what?”

“To the work here.”

“Isn’t that for me to judge?”

“Yes, Mr Godwin. Of course. Only …”

“Only what?”

Routledge swallowed. Who were these people,
anyway? He looked up, directly at Godwin’s face. “I think I know
what you’re building. If I’m right, I believe I could be of greater
service to you. If I’m wrong, then I am being presumptuous and I
apologize.”

“I think you are being presumptuous in either
event.”

“A matter of opinion.”

Godwin expelled his breath and glanced out of
the window before speaking again. “Tell me what you think we’re
building.”

“Ultimately, a boat. At the moment, a sonar.
If the sonar can be made to work, you’ll start on the boat.”

“And where is this ‘boat’ going to go?”

“Away from Sert.”

“And its destination?”

“Devon or Cornwall. Some deserted cove.”

“Aren’t you forgetting about the Magic
Circle?”

“The sonar isn’t all you’re working on.”

“Is that so?”

“You’ve found some way to beat the
system.”

“Have I, now?”

“I don’t ask for a place on the boat, if
that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not blackmailing anyone.”

“Big of you.”

“No. I just don’t want to get chucked over
the cliffs.”

Godwin expelled another breath, more heavily
this time. “Mr Routledge,” he said, after a moment. “You have a
great deal to learn about the Community. No one is going to chuck
you over the cliffs. You are one of us. Any man in the Village
would defend you with his life. Not because he likes the colour of
your eyes, but because he would expect you to do the same for him.”
Against the window, Godwin’s silhouette was bathed in bluish light.
“I can now do one of two things. I can remove you from the project
with an admonition to say nothing about what you believe you have
discovered, or I can let you in on the full details of the plan.
Either way, if you reveal anything, no matter how slight, to anyone
in the Village, anyone, you’ll be across that border hedge so fast
your feet won’t touch the ground. Get the picture?”

Routledge nodded.

“You’re good at sums, I’ll grant you that.”
Godwin half turned and absently leafed through some papers on his
bench. “You’ve already proved your worth.” He picked up a pencil
and began turning it end over end against the papers, pushing it
through the fingers of his right hand. After several turns he let
the pencil drop. “All right. Tell me what you know about
sonar.”

“Not much, specifically. The basic idea. But
I know the physics.”

“Then let me tell you what’s going on here.
You’re right, the Father wants to build a boat. It will carry
twelve men: Mr Appleton, Mr Thaine, me, and the Father himself.
When and if he decides to go ahead with it, he will announce a
lottery for the eight remaining places. Like Mr Fitzmaurice, you
will have to take your chances, assuming by then you still want to
go. You’re also right in thinking that without a sonar the boat
would never get away from the island. Why that is, and how we hope
to evade the Magic Circle, I shall not yet tell you. All you need
to know about, for now, is the sonar. As you may have gathered,
there are lots of problems, most of which are caused by a shortage
of components. We’re tackling it on three fronts. We’ve already
made a simple system using parabolic reflectors. The transmitting
reflector contains a modified radio loudspeaker fed with a high
frequency blip from a loop tape. The receiver is simply a pair of
microphones, each in its own reflector, connected to a stereo
amplifier and headphones. From the nature of the feedback the
operator deduces the profile of the bottom. It works, but the image
is much too crude for safety. The second approach uses the remote
control circuitry from Mr Appleton’s flatscreen. This allows better
imaging, but the range is restricted, and as water turbidity
increases the image dies. Inshore it wouldn’t be good enough. Does
all this mean anything to you?”